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TWO COMEDIES, 



TWO COMEDIES: 

y?^ Ill IVint>; 

z/ls^c c/Jbject <:/1pology. 

F. DONALDSON, JR. 




BOSTON : 
CUPPLES, UPHAM & COMPANY, 

Z\)t ©ItJ Corner 33oaftgtorf, 

[887. 




^^?,-ll«* 



Copyright, 1886, 
By F. DONALDSON, Jr. 



^// rights reserved. 



RAND, AVERT 4 CO.. 
HLBOTROTYPERS AND PRINTERS, 



^tnor tenet omnia: 
ilHutat cortits intima; 
©uaerit amor Uebta: 
jFrtgiHus et calttius et tepititis; 
<amar auliai, pabtUus; 
Est fiUus atqtte perfitius. 

Carmina Burana. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

An III Wind 3 

An Abject Apology 43 



AN ILL WIND. 



Scene. — The parlor of a city house. 
Time, March. A gentleman of about 
twenty-seven years sits in earnest con- 
versation with a young lady of appar- 
ently his own age. Both look a little 
perplexed^ a Utile sad, a good deal out 
of humor. 

Mr. Robert Whyte. Marion, are 
you going to give me a definite answer ? 

Miss Marion Day. No. {After a 
pause) Bob, this is very foolish. 

Mr. Whyte {drearily). I don't see 
why it's foolish. Is all love foolish ? 

Miss Day {turning towards him). 
Now, Bob, do be reasonable. You know 
it can't be, {she hesitates) as yet, anyway. 

Mr. Whyte {appealingly). Why not 
yet? 

3 



4 An III Wind. 

Miss Day. We know each other too 
well — 

Mr. Whyte. I should think that 
were an advantage, not a hinderance. 

Miss Day. It is for the woman, not 
for the man. 

Mr. Whyte. Why not, pray ? 

Miss Day. It's the only thing that 
keeps a man in love. 

Mr. Whyte. What? 

Miss Day. The not knowing a woman. 
— having to find out her many sidedness, 

Mr. Whyte {with a sigh). Don't 
you care for me ? 

Miss Day. Certainly I do. 

Mr. Whyte. Then, why not put an 
end to this uncertainty ? 

Miss Day {after a panse^ and thought- 
fully). Because I don't want to marry 
now. 

Mr. Whyte. Do you care for any one 
else? 

Miss Day. No ; {and quickly) and I 
don't know that I love you. 

Mr. Whyte. But, my dear girl, I've 
been faithful to you seven long years. 



An Hi Wind, 5 

Miss Day. I'm sorry it seemed so 
long to )'0u. I thought the years happy 
ones. 

Mr. Whyte. So they were; {with 
deterininatio7i) but I've waited long 
enough. 

Miss T) ay {appeaiijtgiy). Well, just wait 
a iittle longer, — say until Christmas. 

Mr. Whyte {interrupting. I've loved 
you — 

Miss Day. I know, Bob; and ro- 
mance is more pleasant than history, 
love than marriage. 

Mr. Whyte {war7nly). That's no rea- 
son why you should not give me an answer 
now. 

Miss Day. I have. 

Mr. Whyte {gloomily). But it's not 
the one I wish. 

Miss Day {sadly). I'm sorry, Bob. I 
do love you {lie starts up) in a way, but 
not enough to say yes right now. {With 
a deep sigh) Do wait a httle while. 

Mr. Whyte {desperately). I don't think 
I ca7i wait. 

Miss Day {seriously). But we must 



6 An III Wind. 

not hurry into an agreement which we 
may regret all our lives. Marriage is 
a thing you can't undo, or rather we 
couldn't. 

Mr. Whyte. /would not want to. 

Miss Day {wearily). I've said the same 
thing to you so often. It would not be 
right in me to engage myself to you, sim- 
ply because I am fond of you, and can't 
say I like any one better. 

Mr. Whyte. Are you ever going to 
find out ? 

Miss Day {hopelessly). Why won't 
you let matters remain as they are. We 
are good friends. 

Mr. Whyte {ve?y seriously). Friends ! 
It cannot always be friends. {After a 
pause) Marion, you've put me off long 
enough. I've come here ior yes or no. 

Miss Day. I can't say it now. 

Mr. Whyte {desperately). But you 
must. 

Miss Day {warmly). You've no right 
to force me this way. 

Mr. Whyte. I'm not forcing you. 
You do not know how I feel. It is now 



A7t III Wind. 7 

or never. ( With a gesture of iDtpatience^ 
he rises and walks to the fire-place) 

Miss Day {appealingly). Bob, we've 
known each other since children. I don't 
want to break ; to send you away. 

Mr. Whyte {turnings and walking 
towards her). Then give me the right to 
stay. 

Miss Day. But canH you see how 
hard it is for me. 

Mr. Whyte {doggedly^ as he drops into 
a chair by her side). No. 

Miss Day {turning towards him). But 
I've never thought of you in this h"ght. 

Mr. Whyte. It's not because I have 
not spoken of it. 

Miss Day. I know; but it's only late- 
ly it's become so serious. 

Mr. Whyte {desperately). Will you 
give me an answer .? 

Miss Day {after a pause). I will in 
three months. 

Mr. Whyte. I won't wait any longer. 
You caji answer me if you choose. 

Miss Day {quietly). You are very 
unreasonable. Suppose I should say no. 



8 An III Wind, 

Mr. Whyte {quickly). Any thing's 
better than this miserable uncertainty. 

Miss Day {sadly). Would you break 
off all our friendship ? 

Mr. Whyte. Yes. 

Miss Day {almost tearfully). Would 
you go away for good ? 

Mr. Whyte. Yes. {There is a long 
silence.) 

Miss Day. If you really loved me so 
much — 

Mr. Whyte {grasping her wrist., and 
desperately). If I really loved you so 
much! Heavens! girl, how much and 
how long do you wish to be loved ? 

Miss Day {removing her hand). More 
than I believe you love me. Three months 
is a short time. Marriage is a much more 
serious thing for a woman than for a man, 
Bob. A woman gives up everything, — 
family, friends, home, all. A man scarcely 
any thing. If he tires of the bargain, he 
has his business, his club, and what not. 
A woman, nothing. Her husband should 
be, or at least would be my, all. You wish 
me to to settle all this at once. It's better 
to wait. 



An III Wind. 9 

Mr. Whyte {without looking at her). 
I've waited long enough. Will you an- 
swer now, — yes, or no? 

Miss Day {with deep trouble in her 
voice). I can't. 

Mr. Whyte {fiercely). Marion, I 
swear to you, this is the last time I'll ever 
speak to you. 

Miss Day {throwing herself back in 
her chair). You're very wrong and cruel, 
Bob. I don't want you to go away, but I 
can''t bind myself now. 

Mr. Whyte. You've trifled with me 
long enough. 

Miss Day {indigna7itly). I never 
trifled with you. {The?i angrily) I've 
cared too much for your whims. 

Mr. Whyte {sarcastically). Seven 
years of wlmns, I suppose. 

Miss Day {gently). I didn't mean 
that, Bob. 

Mr. Whyte {risitig). You'll regret 
this, Marion. 

Miss Day {she rises quickly .,and catches 
hitn by the arm). Bob, Bob ! you're not 
going to leave me this way ? 



lo An III Wind. 

Mr. Whyte {drawing himself back). 
Yes, I am. You've treated me heartless- 
ly, cruelly. 

Miss Day {quietly). You are angry 
now. You know that's not so. Three 
months is not long compared to a life- 
time. 

Mr. Whyte. Seven years is, though. 
{He faces her) Will you give me an an- 
swer? 

Miss Day {despairingly). I can't now. 

Mr. Whyte {looking at her, and dog- 
gedly). Then it will be never. You'll re- 
gret this, by Heaven. If it breaks my 
heart — 

Miss Day. Men's hearts don't break, 
Bob. 

Mr. Whyte. I'll never speak to you 
again. I hope some one will get even 
with you for the way you've treated me. 

Miss Day. Oh, Bob ! 

Mr. Whyte {madly). Yes, Heaven 
knows I do. I'll make you suffer as 
you've made me. 

Miss Day. I never did so intention- 
ally. 



An III Wind, ii 

Mr. Whyte. I believe you care for 
me ; and yet, for a silly, ridiculous fancy, 
you won't give me yes or no. 

Miss Day. In three months. 

Mr. Whyte {excitedly). I tell you I 
won't wait. I won't bear it any longer. 
{He comes closer to her) Marion, you 
almost make me hate you. I'll make you 
rue it, if — {He walks away .without fin- 
ishing) 

Miss Day {quietly and in tearful voice). 
Bob, you've no right to speak to me so. 
I'm sorry, but it can't be helped. I've 
done my best. {She drops into the chair) 
I've done what I thought best for you and 
me. {And then to herself) But perhaps 
it is best it should end thus. {By this 
tiine^ Whyte is heard slamming the 

front-door) 

♦ 

Scene. — Four months later. Elegant 
bachelor''s quarters at Newport. A 
gentleman of fifty ^ perhaps., is reclin- 
ing at his ease in a hammock swung 
between the windows of his rootn. 
Roused by a knock at the door, he lays 



12 An III Wind. 

aside the book he is readijtgj as, in an- 
swer to his " Come in," a young man 
enters, who, withoiit word or ceremony, 
proceeds to take off coat and vest, and 
with " Well, life's not worth living," 
throws hiinself into a cojivenient chair. 
Mr. George James views him amus- 
edly, and then 

Mr. George James. Rather pessi- 
mistic sentiments for one of your age ! 

Mr. Robert Whyte. Confound it, 
George ! you are always speaking as if I 
were a baby. 

Mr. James. Well, you are. How old 
are you ? 

Mr. Whyte. Thirty yesterday. 

Mr. James {throwing himself back). 
Wait till you come to forty year. 

Mr. Whyte {with sarcasm). "Wait 
till I come to forty years ? " Why, man, 
I've been through more in the last four 
months, than you have in your whole life. 

Mr. James {with a g?'tint). Some fe- 
male, ril bet. What's up now ? 

Mr. Whyte {^tvith surprise). Haven't 
you heard ? 



An III Wind. 13 

Mr. James. How should I ? You've 
been here ten days, and I have not laid 
eyes on you. I knew you were down 
here, with a woeful ballad to your mis- 
tress' eyebrow. 

Mr. Whyte. See here, George, I am 
very fond of you, — I was going to say, I 
love you Hke a father, — but I do wish 
you would be less sarcastic. 

Mr. James. A fool, a fool. I met a 
fool in the forest. 

Mr. Whyte. Well, I suppose I am 
about women ; but honestly, old fellow, I 
want to talk to you of a very serious mat- 
ter. You see — 

Mr. James. Imprimis, I don't see. 
You've made a fool of yourself. It's a 
great pity young people's marriages can- 
not be made for them. I'm satisfied the 
marriage de convoiance is much better 
than these foolish matches you make 
yourselves. 

Mr. Whyte. You had best wait until 
the match is made. 

Mr. James. You had best be off with 
your old love before you're on with the 
new. 



14 An III Wind. 

Mr. Whyte {quickly). What do you 
mean ? I thought you did not know. 

Mr. James. There needs no ghost 
come from the grave, or Boston either, to 
tell us that. All Newport's talking about 
it. 

Mr. Whyte. I'm sorry to hear it. I 
suppose I must be thankful it's not in the 
" World's " society gossip. 

Mr. James {sitting up). Now, young 
man, let me give you a piece of advice. 
Be sure you know your own mind before 
you try to know another's. {After a pause) 
Why, in Heaven's name, did you go and 
engage yourself to Helen Sturgis six weeks 
after you broke with that other female ? 

Mr. Whyte {indignantly). I did not 
break with her; there was nothing to 
break — no engagement. 

Mr. James. Well, there ought to have 
been, if there was not. Somebody said 
you got mad because she put her head 
out the back window when you called, and 
sent you word she was out. 

Mr. Whyte {fiercely). That's a lie ! 

Mr. James {laughing). Oh, of course 



An III Wind. 15 

I was joking ; but you boys are such 
fools. {^He reaches for a cigar on a table 
near, lights it deliberately, throws Jmnself 
back in the hafnmock, and after a few 
puffs) In marrying, a man runs such awful 
risks. Now, there's the possible mother- 
in-law ; you may have her on your hands. 
A terrible fate ! Who was it said, if you 
have to choose between Hving with your 
mother-in-law and shooting yourself, never 
hesitate — shoot her 1 

Mr. Whyte {laughing). Were you ever 
in love ? 

Mr. James {seriously). Some day I'll 
tell you all about it. But what's this last 
affair of yours ? 

Mr. Whyte {risiftg). Well, you see 
Marion Day had made my life such a 
burden, that I determined to have done 
with her. She wouldn't say yes, she 
wouldn't say no. Finally, driven to de- 
spair, I deserted ; made desperate love to 
Helen Sturgis. — She's staying at the 
Leroys', you know. I'm there too. — And 
now I'm engaged to one woman, in love 
with another. {He walks to the window, 



1 6 An III Wi7td, 

and, after a paused Oh, it's the devil ! 
I'm suffering the tortures of the damned ! 

Mr. James. Poor fellow! as Talley- 
rand said, dcjd,. 

Mr. Whyte {smiling). I'm afraid so, 
indeed. 

Mr. James. Well, my dear boy, I can- 
not sympathize much with you. I have 
given you bushels of good advice; I've 
told you to stick at your work, and leave 
this so-called society gloriously alone, as 
I do. 

Mr. Whyte. You make a fossil of 
yourself. 

Mr. James. Why, of course; what 
would you expect a man of my years to 
do t I have always held that there were 
but three reasons for a man's going out, 
anyway ; and I can't urge one of th^m as 
an excuse. 

Mr. Whyte {grumpily). What are 
they, pray? 

Mr. James {giving a long puff at his 
cigar). Well, a man goes out either to get 
a wife ; to look after his own ; or to look 
after some one else's. Now, my dear Bob, 



Ati III Wind. 17 

I neither want the first ; nor am I haply- 
possessed of the second ; and Heaven 
forbid I should imitate their Frenchified 
fuss, and poach on another's preserves ! 
Ergo, I don't go out. 

Mr. Whyte. Oh, it's all fair. Every 
one's in love with the next man's wife 
now. I often wonder how it would hold 
if they could swap off. 

Mr. James {earnestly). Oh ! There 
would be no change. It must be re- 
formed altogether. As for those that are 
married, what puzzles me is, why they 
did marry. 

Mr. Whyte. For love, of course. 

Mr. James {with injiiiite sarcasm). 
For love, indeed ! {He sits up.) I tell 
you, Bob, the average man and wife, after 
three years, wonder nuhy they did it; how 
they ever came together. 

Mr. Whyte {goes to the table, lights 
a pipey a7id stands facing his friend). 
lago-like, you are nothing, if not critical, 
where there's a woman concerned. 

Mr. James. My dear boy, now see 
here ; I confess to having been deeply in 



1 8 An III Wind, 

love once {with emphasis). I thank 
Heaven it turned out as it did. / would 
have married that woman. She married 
some one else. I but state my honest 
conviction when I say, that she worried 
her first husband, a splendid fellow, into 
the grave in three years, and just nine 
months after was married again; to a 
tough old customer, this time. She 
couldn't kill hi7n. He gave her all the 
money she wanted, and kept out of her 
way — sensible man. — {After a pause) 
She's the mother of nine as ordinary 
children as the sun ever shone upon ; 
there isn't one of them should not give 
their excuse for living ; nine souls, if 
such unthinking creatures have souls. 
Ugh, it makes me shudder! {He sinks 
back in the hajnmock.) 

Mr. Whyte {as he walks back to a 
chair by James). I shan't be in the hu- 
mor of marriage, if I listen to you much 
longer. 

Mr. James. Humor of marriage! 
You don't stay engaged long enough. 

Mr. Whyte. Well, I shall this time. 



Aft /// lVi72d. 19 

{After a pause) Marriage must be the 
happiest state of man. 

Mr. James {energetically). Happiest 
state of man ! {Sitting up) Ba ! You don't 
know what you're talking about. It is of 
woman, I grant you. It's the only thing 
open to them ; they marry in self-defence. 

Mr. Whyte {hopelessly). Oh, Lord ! 

Mr. James. Yes, this marrying and 
giving in marriage is all very fine for the 
first three months, just about. 

Mr. Whyte {laughing). The bilhng 
and cooing's not so bad. 

Mr. James. Except your married man 
coos first, and she bills afterward. 

Mr. Whyte. Nonsense. It's a charm- 
ing state of — 

Mr. James {interrupting). Charming 
state ! I remember an old friend saying, 
that he was so fond of his wife during the 
first three months of marriage, he could 
have eaten her, and at the end of the sec- 
ond he was sorry he hadn't. 

Mr. Whyte. Oh ! You're a rank 
heretic, George. No marriages, what 
would become of the world ? 



20 An III Wind. 

Mr. James. Leave that to their own 
ingenuity. 

Mr. Whyte. Now, how much happi- 
er you'd be with some one to administer 
to your wants. 

Mr. James. Minister to my wants, 
indeed ! It's not the fashion now for wives 
to stay at home. I heard a man the other 
night at the club say that his wife hadn't 
been at home one evening in seven- 
teen. 

Mr. Whyte. That's all very fine; 
but was he ? 

Mr. James. I don't know; but I've 
no doubt she left him first. A husband's 
not a fashionable appendage nowadays. 
He's at best the means, pecuniary and 
otherwise; a sort of social umbrella, to 
protect his wife from the reigning beaus, 
I suppose. He's the bridge which enables 
a woman to cross from that world where 
she can do nothing, to that in which she 
may do any thing. {After a long puff) I 
don't propose to turn myself into either 
an umbrella or a bridge. 

Mr. Whyte. All the same, you know 



An III Wind. 21 

a lovely woman's the most attractive thing 
in the world. 

Mr. James. I grant you. Framed to 
make men false ; fair to look at, devils 
to possess — in marriage. 

Mr. Whyte. But marriage begins 
with the honeymoon. 

Mr. James {interrupt mg). And if it 
could only end with it. Lady Mary Wort- 
ley Montague was on the right track when 
she tried to get a bill through Parliament 
to make marriages, like leases, hold for a 
term of years. 

Mr. Whyte {smiling). Why wasn't it 
carried ? 

Mr. James. Because some one sug- 
gested, that a lease contained a covenant 
to keep and leave in good repair, reasonable 
wear and tear excepted. That stuck her. 

Mr. Whyte. That certainly would be 
impossible nowadays. 

Mr. James. I should think so. No, 
marriage is not for such as I. I am glad 
I'm too old for it. 

Mr. Whyte. Too old ! When should 
a man marry, pray .'* 



22 An III Wind. 

Mr. James {soberly). A young man not 
yet, an elder man not at all. 

Mr. Whyte. Well, we'll see about 
you. 

Mr. James. My dear fellow, it's dan- 
gerous for a man of my years to marry. 
A wife would be in my way, damnably, as 
Byron remarked to his spouse. 

Mr. Whyte {rising). If I listen to 
you, I'll turn unbeliever myself. 

Mr. James. Not at all. You're young. 
I'd take a better-half myself if I was your 
age ; {after a patise) if I could marry 
her in sections, as Sydney Smith said of 
the fat woman, and as I tired of one, try 
another. 

Mr. Whyte {earnestly). If you'll stop 
this chaff for a few minutes, I'll be 
obliged. I came here in deep trouble to 
get your advice. I'm in a dreadful box. 
{After a patise) I don't know why I did it. 
{He rises., walks to the table., pours out a 
glass of brandy., and swallows it off) If 
I thought it respectable, I'd go on a regu- 
lar — I'd drown dull care. What am I to 
do about it ? 



An III IVifid. 23 

Mr. James {stei'nly). Stick to it like a 
man. A gentleman can't jilt a woman. 
You did it yourself. 

Mr. Whyte. No, I didn't; Marion 
drove me to it. 

Mr. James. Supposing she did; is 
that any excuse for your making a de- 
fenceless girl suffer? What right have 
you to compromise Miss Sturgis ? If you 
break with her, I'll never speak to you 
again. 

Mr. Whyte. Now, see here, old fel- 
low, I am not going to break with her; 
but what a position I'm in ! I love Marion 
Day; and, to put it mildly, I don't care 
for Helen Sturgis at all. 

Mr. James {carelessly). Mrs. Malaprop 
says it's better to begin with a little aver- 
sion. 

Mr. Whyte {iiot noticing the inter- 
ruption). \^\\dX shall I do about it.-* I've 
loved Marion for years. 

Mr. James. You are the better pre- 
pared for marriage. Some one said it 
was necessary for a man to have thorough- 
ly known one woman before marrying. 



24 An III lVi7id. 

Now you've done that. {After a pause) 
My dear boy, I cannot give you any comfort. 
I am disgusted with you ; and, if it were 
not for the girl's sake, I'd like to see you 
" noosed " now. {He gets out of the ham- 
mock^ goes to the ?na7itel, relights his cigar, 
and throws himself ifito the chair va- 
cated by Whyte. There is a lo7tg silence^ 
Whyte moves nervously aboiit the room, 
looks at Imnself in the glass, and fnMr- 
murs\ " By Jove, this thing's telling on 
me." 

Mr. James {with a gncjit). It ought to. 

Mr. Whyte {turning round). Will 
you tell me why you have not married ? 

Mr. James. I found my bachelor life 
more to my taste. The years passed so 
rapidly, too, that I was soon too old for it. 
I wouldn't marry an old girl, and I can't 
marry a young one; for, after all, the 
young wife of an old man is only a girl 
who belongs to somebody else. 

Mr. Whyte. This does not tell me 
why you did not marry in the beginning. 

Mr. James {settlijig Imnself i7i his 
chair, and seriously). I'll tell you, Bob, 



A71 III Wind. 25 

in confidence. {A pained look passes over 
his face) My rather bitter feeling towards 
women began when I was in college. I 
saw my chum's life — a brilliant fellow — 
ruined by a woman. {He lights a fresh 
cigar) This is how it happened : He met 
the young woman one Christmas vacation, 
and fell deeply in love with her at first 
sight. He came back to college happy 
and bright about it all, for she seemed to 
return his love ; and they were engaged 
some months later. I met her myself about 
that time. She was both brilliant and 
beautiful, but I never liked her ; {a pause) 
she protested too much. Well, Arthur, my 
chum, was called to Europe just after 
class day, and did not return for nine 
months, during which time their corre- 
spondence was kept up. When he got 
back, he found that this lovely creature 
had been involved in a dreadful scandal. 
Society had dropped her. She had left her 
brother's house, and was living in seclusion. 
I knew it myself only shortly before his 
return, having been on a tour round the 
world. At any rate, it did not reach his 



26 An III Wind^ 

ears until he got back. It nearly killed 
him. — Just think of that woman's writing 
love-letters to him all the time. — He 
never recovered from the shock, never! 
He became more and more melancholy 
and despondent ; and, just one year later, 
he killed himself. {A long patise.) This 
was my first experience, and I assure you 
it is word for word true. My second is 
not much better, though less disgraceful. 
The man was, perhaps, the most intimate 
friend I had, next to Arthur. These, with 
an experience of women all the world 
over, caused me to look upon marriage as 
undesirable for me. I thought I could 
accomphsh my aims better unmarried, 
particularly after my own affair, which I'd 
rather not mention; and so you find me a 
trifle bitter, perhaps, even after all these 
years. As for this scrape you've gotten 
yourself into, I'm sorry; but you must be- 
have like a man. You've made your bed 
— you know the consequences. 

Mr. Whyte. You are not very consol- 
ing. Well, I must be going. {He puts 
on the coat which he had thrown care- 



An III Wind. 27 

lessly on the floor, picks up his hat, and 
moves toward the door) Marion's down 
here, you know: I've met her twice. 

Mr. James. You'd best let her alone. 
She's perfectly lovely, they tell me. 

Mr. Whyte. Well, I should think 
so. She is so witty and clever and beauti- 
ful, I could look at her forever. Good-by. 

Mr. James {as he goes out). Yes : you 
seem to have found her a liberal educa- 
tion. Good-by. 

As Whyte goes down, he hears James 
sijigiftg, — 

Then j^ou'U know the worth of a lass, 
Then you'll know that a boy's an ass, 
Wait till you come to forty years. 



Scene. — The partly enclosed corner of 
the porch of a N^ewport cottage, Ha7n- 
mocks are swung across from window 
to window. Small tables strewn with 
books aiid papers. Easy-chairs in pro- 
fusion. Seated by one of the tables with 
a writing-desk before hirn is Mr. Rob- 



28 An III Wind. 

ERT Whyte. He looks careworn^ and 
his expression is troubled as he lays 
down his pen and soliloquizes, — 

No, by Jove, I must not. I must not 
write to her. I told Helen I'd never see 
Marion again. I'll keep my word. {He 
tears up a half-written letter i?ito little 
bits.) There, that's settled. {He gets up, 
walks nervously around, and throws him- 
self into an easy-chair.) I'd give any 
thing for just one word with her, to say 
good-by. It's the last chance. In six 
weeks I'll be married. Oh, heavens ! 
But, as George says, I must go through 
with it. {A pause.) Would it be honor- 
able to break with Helen ? No ! Yes, but 
is it honorable to marry a woman you do 
not love ? {Hopelessly) How can I make 
her happy ? Great Scott ! I'd like to know 
the end of all this. Helen's jealous of 
Marion, and suspicious of me. How fool- 
ish and wrong it was of me to do this, 
simply because I was piqued ! I thought 
Marion cared for me, and that I would get 
even with her, make her unhappy, if I went 



A71 III Wind. 29 

off to some one else. She doesn't seem to 
mind at all. {He rises, and walks out on 
the porch.) I wonder if she does care for 
me. I certainly thought she did. {He 
smiles bitterly) It seems to me Fve fixed 
no one but myself. {After a pause) I 
must see Marion before I leave, just once. 
I'll write to her {he walks back to the 
table), " though hell itself should gape, 
and bid me hold my peace." {He sits 
down at the table, and writes rapidly^ 
leans back in his chair ajid reads, — 

My dear Marion, — I must see you before I 
leave. Pray see me when I call this evening. 
You know how miserable I am. I am to be sepa- 
rated from you forever. 

Yours, 

R. W. 

He directs an envelope, and rises, leav- 
ing the note lying on his desk, then throws 
hi?nself into a hammock ; a7id, with a 
deep sigh, relapses into a browjt study, 
yust then a sudden gust of wind scatters 
the papers, and catchi^ig up the note 
Whyte had written carries it out of the 
open window. It whirls about in the air 



30 An III Wind. 

a second, and then falls upon the green- 
sward of the lawn. Whyte, his back 
partly to the desk, and wrapped in 
thought, does not notice this accident^ 



Scene. — The lawn of the cottage, run- 
ning down to the rocks which line the 
sho7'e. On a bench are seated two 
girls. One looks twenty, perhaps, the 
other a few years older. They are in 
deep co7iverse. 

Miss Helen Sturgis {with a sigh). 
Well, Emily dear, I can't say I'm very 
happy. 

Miss Emily Howard. I don't see 
why not. He's a bright, talented fellow, 
good-looking and attractive. I do think 
it's a pity he has so much money. He'd 
do something if he was poor. 

Miss Sturgis {impatiently). Oh! it 
isn't that. But it was all so sudden. He 
literally took me by storm. 

Miss Howard. Avec les femmes 
V amour entre par les oreilles. 



An /// Wind. 31 

Miss Sturgis. Somehow I'm afraid, 
and {thoughtfully^ looking he?' co7npajiioii 
full in the face) I don't quite believe in 
him. {She catches Miss Howard by the 
wrist.) 

Miss Howard {laughing). Don't be 
so tragic, Helen dear. "You've a quick 
eye to see. He hath deceived others, and 
may thee." Oh ! come, come. It will be 
all right. 

Miss Sturgis {leaning back, and drop- 
ping her hands in her lap). I'm very se- 
rious, Emily. I'm afraid some trouble's 
ahead. {After a pause) Marion Day's 
down here. 

Miss Howard. What of that? 

Miss Sturgis {tragically). I believe 
he was engaged to her. 

Miss Howard. Why? 

Miss Sturgis {frowning). I don't 
know; I seem to feel it. {With marked 
emphasis) She was so sweet the other day. 
She kissed me, — you know we went to 
school together, — saying, "I congratu- 
late you, dear. I knew Mr. Whyte very 
(with emphasis on the very) well myself. 



32 Aft III Wind. 

He's a lovely fellow." Of course, this 
was a dig at me. What she meant was, 
" I could have had him myself, and after 
I dropped him he went to you." 

Miss Howard {warmly). How hor- 
rid ! Just like a woman ! Men never say 
such things to each other. A woman's 
sarcasm is very refined, I think. They 
like to " speak daggers." 

Miss Sturgis {solemnly). He swears 
he never cared a rap for her, but he has 
certainly been different since she got 
here. 

Miss Howard. Oh, nonsense ! " To 
the jealous, trifles," you know. 

Miss Sturgis. I'm not jealous, Emily. 
But I must say it to you, I do not trust 
Bob entirely. 

Miss Howard. Then, dear, for mer- 
cy's sake, don't marry him. If you begin 
without trust, you'll end without love. 

Miss Sturgis {desperately). Oh, I am 
tortured with uncertainty ! I don't know 
what to do. 

Miss Howard. Now, Helen, you 
must not be so suspicious. You really 



An III Wind. 33 

love him, and all this imhappiness comes 
from too much self-examination. 

Miss Sturgis. No, it does not. I'm 
not suspicious. He was with her the 
other evening every moment he could get 
away from me. {After a pause) I did 
not like the last letter he wrote me, either ; 
it was entirely too distrait : it seemed to 
me he begun without knowing what he 
was going to say, and ended without know- 
ing what he had said. 

Miss 'Ro\n akt> {laughing). Yes, dear; 
but that's exactly what Rousseau said a 
love-letter should be. {Both are silent 
for some minutes. Miss Sturgis rises, 
and walks up and down nervously y stops, 
looks out tearfully upon the ocean, and 
sits down at Miss Howard's feet) 

Miss Sturgis {seriously). Emily, I be- 
believe most women, when they become en- 
gaged, never think that it means marriage. 

Miss Howard. Then it's a great pity, 
for that's the serious part of it; though 
the thought must be an alloy. Some 
one said, Marriage is the death of senti- 
ment, the grave of romance. 



34 An III Wind. 

Miss Sturgis {woefully). I should 
hate to think that. 

Miss Howard. Well, my dear, I don't 
wish to 'disgruntle' you; but you know 
my opinion. 

Miss Sturgis. You'll fall in love 
yourself, some of these days. 

Miss Howard. Perhaps so. These 
men we meet in society are all very nice, 
very swell, very au faitj but, like Vol- 
taire's trees, they ought to be; they've 
got nothing else to do. I could care only 
for an earnest man. 

Miss Sturgis. That's what I'm trou- 
bling about. I don't think {shaking her 
head) he is in earnest; and yet, he's 
a lovely fellow. {Firmly) I'm going to 
have a perfectly frank talk with him. He 
shall not compromise me by his attentions 
to Marion Day. If she had the right 
spirit she wouldn't let — 

Miss Howard {laughing). Oh, oh! 
you expect too much of her. She's a 
woman, and likes to feel her power : she'd 
rather make another woman suffer than 
not. 



An III Wind. 



35 



Miss Sturgis. Well, I can't bear her, 
and I don't think she loves me. 

Miss Howard. You may be sure of 
that. 

Miss Sturgis {thoughtfully). What 
troubles me is, what I shall say to Mr. 
Whyte. »ril have it out with him, and tell 
him just what I think. Oh, it's miserable 
of him to treat me so ! Emmie, I believe 
men begin to fall out of love as soon as a 
woman says yes. Their interest flags as 
soon as the game is bagged. {After a 
pause) What grounds do you think a girl 
ought to have for breaking an engage- 
ment? 

Miss Howard {smiling). Grounds 
more relative than you have, dear. 

Miss Sturgis. Yes; but how much 
coldness and inattention should I allow? 
{Dolefully) You've told me I might expect 
it after I was married, but I'm experi- 
encing it already. 

Miss Howard. But what can you 
do ? You can't break an engagement so 
lightly. 

Miss Sturgis {tearfully). I don't 



36 An III Wind. 

want to break my engagement, Emmie, 
but — but I fear he'll force me to do it. 
Oh, I'm very unhappy! I wish Marion 
had staid away ! Bob's head's completely 
turned since she arrived. {She gets up, 
and sits beside her compa7iion.) I won- 
der if he was ever engaged to her. 

Miss Howard. I'm sure I don't 
know. 

Miss Sturgis. He always avoids my 
questions. 

Miss Howard. My dear, you should 
never have asked him. A woman is not 
supposed to know what a man's done be- 
fore he is her's. If you question them, 
you just make them mad, and ten to one 
you don't get a truthful answer. 

Miss Sturgis (jrt:^/^). Oh, my! 

Miss Howard. A man holds him- 
self accountable to a woman only for his 
actions after marriage : in our world not 
even then, I fear. 

Miss Sturgis. I'm afraid he does not 
love me — that he's tired of me already I 
Well, if every thing goes wrong, no one 
shall ever know my feelings. {Putting 



A?t III Wind. 37 

her ar7n round her companion) I don't 
count you, dear. I hope we shall always 
be friends. 

Miss Howard. We shall, dear {kiss- 
ing her). I hope it will all be right. I 
can't think Mr. Whyte would purposely 
neglect you — would tire of you so soon. 
It's all a mistake. Now, come, don't 
trouble any more. {Getting up) Let's 
go into lunch. {Miss Sturgis rises, takes 
her friend ''s arm, and they walk across 
the lawn towards the housed 

Miss Sturgis {shaking herself). I 
don't know w^hy I feel so wretchedly. 
{After a panse) Emmie, something dread- 
ful's coming out of all this I'm sure. {As 
they near the house. Miss Howard notices 
apiece of white paper lying on the grass 
ahead of them >j 

Miss Howard. Oh, how careless in 
the servants to leave things lying about 
so ! It ruins the whole look of the green. 
(Miss Howard stoops down and picks 
up Whyte's letter, which lay with the 
written side to the ground. She turns it 
over, and the words, My dear Marion, 



38 An III Wind. 

I must see you. You know how miser- 
able I am, are read by her involun- 
tarily. A ftighteiied look cojnes over her 
face. She makes a inotio7i to crujjipie the 
paper in her hand, hoping to hide it from 
her co7npanion. It is too late, for she 
feels her friend''s grasp tighten on her 
ar7n, and turns to see her pale, and tre7n' 
bli>ig with e7notio7u) 

Miss Sturgis {quietly). Give that to 
me, Emmie. 

Miss Howard. Oh, no, Helen ! 

Miss Sturgis. But I must have it. 
(Miss Howard ha7ids her the paper. She 
takes it calmly, folds it, a7id puts it i7i her 
pocket. They walk 07i i7i sile7ice to the 
hottse. As they co77ie up the steps, Whyte 
hears the7n, and rousi7ig hi7nself, gets out 
of the ha77imock. He watches the two 
girls go i7tto the house, biit does 7iot see 
the little shudder which passes over both 
of the7n as they see him, nor the tears 
which are t7'ickling dow7i the cheeks ofo7ie, 
nor does he hear the 7'e77iark, — " Oh, how 
could he have done it ! " — (Whyte turns, 
and sits down at the W7'iti7ig-table, a7id 



An III Wind. 39 

addresses an envelope) I'll send it anyhow. 
{He picks up a sheet of folded note-paper^ 
to find it blanky and looks nervously over 
his desk) I wonder where in the deuce 
that note is. Could it have blown out of 
the window 1 {He picks up paper after 
Paper^ which the wind had blow?t about, 
but to no purpose) What under the sun 
has become of it. {He goes through his 
pockets, in vain) I wouldn't have mis- 
placed that note for any money. It must 
be found. It must be here. What a 
fool I was to write, to put any thing on 
paper. If that note's found, I'm done 
for. {Getting up in evident alarm) If 
that comes to Helen's eyes, I'll never, 
never be able to explain. I love her 
really, after all, I believe. Of course, she'll 
never let me speak to her again. I'll get 
the credit of having been jilted, of having 
been bounced. Every one will be laugh- 
ing at me, and {dropping into a large 
chair) I'll never be able to open my 
mouth in my own defence. {After a 
pause) By Heaven ! I don't know that 
I've got any. I was all right until Marion 



40 An III Wind. 

came here. I had almost forgotten her. 
Confound her ! She seems destined to 
make my life miserable. {Desperately) I 
wish I had never met her. {After a pause) 
No, I don't. I wonder what has become 
of that note. The wind must have spir- 
ited it away. At this moment, a servant 
appears, and hands Mr. Whyte two 
notes. He drops the smaller one in his 
hurry, and with " Til bet it's come now," 
opens that in his hand, out of which a 
ri?ig drops, and reads, — 

Dear Mr. Whyte, — I enclose a note which 
I found lying on the lawn this morning. The few 
words which caught my eye proved what I had 
already suspected. And this ends forever all be- 
tween us. 

Yours, 

HELEN STURGIS. 

(Whyte stops, and stares vacatitly be- 
fore him.) Great Heavens ! I wonder if 
Marion would speak to me if she knew the 
truth. {After a long silence, he perceives 
the second 7iote, atid smiles complacently 
as he recognizes the handwriting j he 
opens it slowly, and reads, — 



Aft III Wind. 41 

My dear Bob, — You are such an old friend, 
that I feel you should be one of the first to know 
of my engagement to {he viumbles the rest.) 

Yours, 

MARION DAY.) 



AN ABJECT APOLOGY. 



Scene. — The hallway of a handsome 
house. A ball is gomg on. Flowers 
and growing plants Jill every nook and 
corner. Music is heard in the distance^ 
while many ladies and gentlemen in 
full dress cross and re-cross the scene. 
Presently a couple appear^ and walk 
rather listlessly to the upper end of the 
hall, and take their seat upon a sofa, 
which is almost entirely screened by 
large plafits. The ge7itle7nan looks 
thirty five : a thoughtful, earnest face 
is, perhaps, his most marked physical 
characteristic. His co77ipanion is about 
two and twenty, tall rather, with a 
graceful, well-rounded fgure. Striking 
looking she certainly is, her steel-gray 
43 



44 ^^ Abject Apology. 

eyes contrasting st?'ongly with her brown 
hair and eyelashes. She sits iji silence 
for a few seconds, and then, languid- 

Miss Grace Elliot. What is the 
matter with you this evening? I thought 
you said you wished to talk to me. 

Mr. Julian Reeves. I did ; but I 
feel so stupid. I've — 

Miss Elliot {fattning herself slowly). 
Follow Sydney Smith : begin with plain 
talk, and trust to something coming out 
of it. 

Mr. Reeves {pointedly, and in deep 
bass). I trust something may come out 
of it when I have spoken. 

Miss Elliot {with a shudder). Ugh ! 
Don't be so funereal. You speak as if 
your hour had almost come. 

Mr. Reeves. It has : like a walking 
shadow, I — 

Miss Elliot {interrupting, and itn- 
patiently). What are you driving at ? I 
suppose when you can't talk sense, you 
talk metaphor. 



Afi Abject Apology, 45 

Mr. Reeves {with dignity). Miss El- 
liot, I was thinking that — 

Miss Elliot. Language was given 
you to disguise your thoughts — I agree 
with you. 

Mr. Reeves. I was thinking — I was 
about to say — {Just at this moment a 
pleasant-looking young fellow walking 
by sees Miss Elliot. He ?nakes straight 
for the chair by her, and, with a pleasant, 
" Good-evening, Miss EUiot," and a " Hel- 
lo, Reeves," sits down. Reeves stops 
in the middle of his sentence, and moves 
sulle7ily to the end of the sofa. The new- 
comer siniles at this exhibition, and turns 
to the young lady) 

Miss Elliot. Well, Mr. Davis, I'm 
glad to see you. What have you been 
doing with yourself lately ? 

Mr. Davis. Getting a friend married. 

Miss Elliot. Poor fellow ! 

Mr. Davis {smiling). It wasn't a fel- 
low : it was a female. 

Miss Elliot, Poor thing ! 

Mr. Reeves {from the end of the sofa). 
Why do you call the man a poor fellow, 



46 An Abject Apology. 

and the woman a poor thing, I'd like to 
know ? 

Miss Elliot. They call her " a thing," 
I suppose, because, having married, she's 
no longer a thinking being. 

Mr. Davis {laughing).' You don't mean 
to say that a woman stops thinking when 
she gives herself up to one man. 

Miss Elliot. No. She generally 
stops thinking when she falls in love. 

Mr. Reeves. Pity 'tis ! For after all 
it's what you women thmk most about. 

Miss Elliot. About what ? Men, or 
love in the abstract. 

Mr. Reeves {sa?'castically). That 
woman remains to be born who is capable 
of interesting herself in an abstract idea. 
Some brilliant individual remarked that. 

Miss Elliot. You needn't have told 
us that, it doesn't sound original. (Reeves 
looks rather savagely at her, and relapses 
into silence. Miss Elliot, turning to 
Davis) The town's mad on the subject of 
marriage. 

Mr. Davis. The women, you mean! 
There have been a great many. 



An Abject Apology. 47 

Miss Elliot {throwing herself back, 
and with a sweep of her fan). I don't 
think woman is put into this world solely 
to marry, and be given in marriage. There 
ought to be something else open to us — 
woman's sphere is very limited. 

Mr. Davis. Yes, it is. But I'm not so 
sure it isn't as well. 

Miss Elliot. Perhaps so. {And laugh- 
ing It does seem as if we could not do 
without you. For, after all, most of us 
go out to marry, and — 

Mr. Davis {rising). The rest marry to 
go out. Good-by. {He bows himself off ^ 

Mr. Reeves. Thank Heaven, that 
little chap's gone ! It seems to me you're 
very polite to him. He's as stupid — 

Miss Elliot. He isn't stupid at all. 
He's a very nice fellow. 

Mr. Reeves {angrily). You are very 
polite to such insufferable men. 

Miss Elliot {carelessly). Certainly ! 
I've been polite \.o you this evening. 

Mr. Reeves. Thanks. You're in a 
happy frame of mind. 

Miss Elliot. That's more than I can 



48 An Abject Apology. 

say for you. {Both are silent for a few 
minutes) 

Mr. Reeves {wnki7ig from his brow7i 
study). I'm going back home to-morrow 
night, Miss Elhot. 

Miss Elliot {htimming snatches from 
« The Mikado "). Well ! 

Mr. Reeves {evidently piqued at her 
?nanner). Well, I'm going home. Aren't 
you sorry ? 

Miss Elliot {raising her eyebrows). 
I ! dear me, why should I be 1 

Mr. Reeves. I — I don't know. I 
thought you might dislike saying good-by 
to a friend {pointedly). 

Miss Elliot {naively). Oh, that way ! 
why, yes, indeed. 

Mr. Reeves {coming closer to her). 
You know I've gotten to look upon you 
as a great friend, and I hate to say good- 
by to you. I dreaded for this time to 
come. These last three weeks have been 
the happiest I ever spent {looking ear- 
nestly at her)., thanks to you. 

Miss Elliot {with a shrug of her 
shoulders). Oh, you've changed ! Two 



An Abject Apology. 49 

weeks ago you told me I treated you out- 
rageously. If I remember rightly, you 
even called me a flirt ; and, by the way, 
that reminds me — Mr. Vandewater tells 
me you consider me something of a fiend 
in that line. 

Mr. Reeves {with a frown). Did he ? 
I never said so to hiin. When I said you 
treated me outrageously, I merely meant — 

Miss Elliott. You shouldn't use 
such strong language. 

Mr. Reeves. I merely meant — that 
you worried me like — 

Miss Elliot. It's a pity. If you 
didn't like it, you had the remedy in your 
own hands. 

Mr. Reeves. Oh, you know well 
enough what I mean ! It's a second na- 
ture with you Southern women. I re- 
member a Savannah girl I met once, who 
had four men on the string at once. Up 
to the time they met her, they were good 
friends. After one week, they were dis- 
tant to each other; in two weeks, they 
didn't speak; in three, they desired each 
other's gore. This delectable young wo- 



50 An Abject Apology. 

man threw all four over in twenty-four 
hours. Such wrecks were never seen. 
Later they saw the joke of it, and became 
friends again. That girl is still unmar- 
ried. So take care. 

Miss Elliot. I like your impudence. 
You speak as if marriage was the sole end 
of woman. 

Mr. Reeves. Well, it is mostly. 

Miss Elliot. Pa ! the conceit of you 
men [laughing) ! I wish we were not so 
dependent upon you. If women would 
only devote themselves to sometliing else 
besides falling in love. {With sarcasm) 
Propinquity — propinquity's what does it. 
They become a possibility for each other, 
because there's no other available person 
about. {Positively) I should hate to think 
I had fallen in love, simply because the 
man was the only one possible. 

Mr. Reeves. Then there is one pos- 
sible ? 

Miss Elliot {firmly). I was only 
supposing. There's no reason why we 
shouldn't put a little reason into the mat- 
ter. Is there.'' 



An Abject Apology, 51 

Mr. Reeves iinterruptijig). None, ex- 
cept that you're a woman. 

Miss Elliot {looking at him). I'll 
work it out yet. 

Mr. Reeves. To his salvation, you 
mean. 

Miss Elliot. No ; to my own. 

Mr. Reeves {with a sigh). I hope it'll 
be to his. {After a silence, aiid seriously) 
Miss EHiot, I'm afraid I'm not a very joy- 
ful companion this evening. You see — 

Miss Elliot. The dejected 'havior of 
your visage, I do. 

Mr. Reeves {impatiently). You see, 
I'm depressed to death about leaving you. 
{After a pause) I don't know whether I'm 
glad or sorry I met you, anyway. 

Miss Elliot {opening her eyes very 
wide). Why not, pray ? 

Mr. Reeves. Well, this sort of thing's 
all very fine ; but it can't last. You've 
affected me most deeply. 

Miss Elliot. Effected you ! How ? 

Mr. Reeves. Well, you've changed 
my whole self, — my way of looking at 
things. Haven't men told you what a 
hold you had on them .? 



52 An Abject Apology. 

Miss Elliot. No. 

Mr. Reeves {laughing). I know what 
that " no " means. 

Miss Elliot. I congratulate you. I've 
seen men who didn't know " no " when 
they heard it. 

Mr. Reeves. Well, you've taken a 
deep hold on me. You've been a strong, 
and, if the truth must be told, a disturb- 
ing element in my life. 

Miss Elliot {laughing). Your life 
must be wretched, at that rate. If every 
woman you're devoted to is a disturbing 
element, that's — let's see — shall we say 
fifty in the last year? {And rather seri- 
ously) Mr. Reeves, I don't put the slight- 
est belief in what you say. You say the 
same to every woman you meet. 

Mr. Reeves {as he changes his seat, and 
warmly). Bless it. Miss Elliot ! Can't 
you see I'm in earnest? Why wonH you 
see I'm serious? I sometimes think, if 
you knew how much influence you women 
have over us, — how great power for good, 
— you'd treat us men differently. 

Miss Elliot. What on earth do you 
mean by " treat us differently ? " 



An Abject Apology. 53 

Mr. Reeves. Well, you wouldn't trifle 
with us so. 

Miss Elliot. Trifle with you, indeed! 
I believe you think we should take it for 
granted every man who seems to be at- 
tracted by us is in love with us. 

Mr. Reeves {pomtedly). They mostly 
are with you. 

Miss Elliot. Nonsense ! Just so 
sure as we make ourselves agreeable, you 
say we are flirting. {Positively) Mr. 
Reeves, a woman has no right to believe 
a man's in love with her, until he tells 
her so. 

Mr. Reeves {with sarcasm). I've 
heard these sentiments before. 

Miss Elliot. It's perfectly true, and 
right too. 

Mr. Reeves. It's a flattering unction, 
doubtless. 

Miss Elliot {quickly). I really believe 
you men think we should go about as a 
sort of a sandwich, — " Susceptible young 
men, beware ! This female's dangerous." 

Mr. Reeves. It would save us poor 
devils many a heartburn. 



54 Afi Abject Apology, 

Miss Elliot. I suppose men's hearts 
«r^ near the surface. {After a pause) On 
your sleeve almost — for women to peck 
at. 

Mr. Reeves {impatiently). Do you 
really mean to tell me you don't know 
when a man's in love with you ? 

Miss Elliot. No. 

Mr. Reeves {laughing, but evidently 
irritated). That's refreshing. You don't 
want to know — there's the trouble. A 
man's attentions flatter you, and you don't 
like to break with him. 

Miss Elliot. How, pra}^ cajt we take 
action until the man speaks ? 

Mr. Reeves. Very often you won't 
take action when he does. 

Miss Elliot {laughing). I've known 
action taken, and rapidly too. It all de- 
pends. {They are silent for a time. 
Reeves turns restlessly in his chair, p7ills 
a couple of leaves off the plant nearest him^ 
and moves back to his seat upon the sofa.) 

Mr. Reeves {earnestly). Why won't 
you talk seriously to me ? why won't you 
believe what I say to you? You must 
know how I hate to say good-by. 



An Abject Apology. 55 

Miss Elliot {nervotisly). Come, let's 
go back to the parlor: we've been here 
long enough. 

Mr. Reeves {plaintively). No, not yet, 
Miss EHiot. This is the last chance I'll 
have, and I want to say something to you. 
(Miss Elliot throws herself back with a 
wearied air. Reeves noticing her appar- 
ent indifference) For Heaven's sake look 
a little interested. 

Miss Elliot {carelessly). I am ! I 
deeply sympathize ! 

Mr. Reeves {warmly). I don't want 
sympathy. I simply want you to listen to 
me. 

Miss Elliot {sjfziling). What do you 
want to do ? philosophize 1 

Mr. Reeves {hopelessly). Hang phi- 
losophy ! 

Miss Elliot. What do you wish then ? 
To talk about yourself } 

Mr. Reeves {brightening up). Yes, 
that's it. 

Miss Elliot {letting her haiids drop in 
her lap). Well, go on. Oh, piteous pre- 
dicament I 



56 An Abject Apology. 

Mr. Reeves. If you'll just be serious 
for a few minutes — can't you see when a 
man's in earnest. 

Miss Elliot. I don't know — what are 
the symptoms ? 

Mr. Reeves. Please be serious. I'm 
not a child. You know how deeply you've 
touched me. You've changed my whole 
life. I've done some work worth while 
since I met you a year ago. My whole 
thought has been {lie looks at her^ and see- 
ing she's listening — has been you. {She 
gives a slight start.) If perchance my 
work should please you — that's been my 
aim — I felt as if I'd do any thing — make 
any effort — to make you glad you knew 
me ; glad to have me as a friend. 

Miss Elliot {After a pause). I am 
your friend ! {Slowly, and looking full at 
him) I'm glad we were thrown together. 

Mr. Reeves. Oh ! thanks, Miss Elliot. 
I'm happy to know that. You've made a 
different and a happier man out of me. 

Miss Elliot {with rising inflection), 
I? 

Mr. Reeves {passionately). Yes : you, 



An Abject Apology. 57 

you, Miss Elliot. {He leans towards her, 
about to speak ; she hesitates a jnoment, 
and is about to rise, when they both per- 
ceive a gentleman coining towards them. 
He is a spry-looking party, who might be 
any age from forty to seventy j would pass 
muster very well, if it were not for the 
'•''old'''' expression about the knees. He 
speaks rather rapidly, with an attempt 
at the man-ofthe-world style.) 

Mr. John Lane. Ah! er — er, Miss 
Elliot, good-evening. 

Miss Elliot. Good-evening, Mr. Lane. 
{Turning to Mr. Reeves) May I intro- 
duce my friend Mr. Reeves. {A7td sotto 
voce) Speak loud, he's a little deaf. 

Mr. Lane {turning his best ear on Mr. 
Reeves). Mr. what did you — er — 
say .-* 

Mr. Reeves {putting out his hand). 
Mr. Reeves. 

Mr. Lane. Oh, er — er — happy — er 
to meet er — you, Mr. Reeves! Lovely 
ball — er, isn't it ? 

Mr. Reeves and Miss Elliot. 
Lovely. 



58 An Abject Apology, 

Mr. Lane. How long — er — you been 
in — er town, Mr. Reeves ? 

Mr. Reeves. Few weeks only. 

Mr. Lane. Lovely girls here — er — 
beautiful ball this. 

Miss Elliot. Beautiful. 

Mr. Reeves {sotto voce). Don't ask 
him to sit down. 

Miss Elliot {with a smile). Won't 
you sit down, Mr. Lane. (Reeves looks 
daggers^ and Mr. Lane sits down.) 

Mr. Lane. I was — er — saying to 
Miss Smith. You — er — know Miss 
Smith — er — lovely girl. Miss Smith — I 
was — er — saying that the house was — 
er — lovely — er — beautiful this evening. 

Miss Elliot. Yes ; the flowers espe- 
cially. (Mr. Lane turns to examine the 
plant beside him.) 

Mr. Reeves. What did you ask him 
to sit down for ? 

Miss Elliot. He'll go to sleep in a 
minute. 

Mr. Reeves. I told you I wanted to 
say something special to you. Why 
didn't you let the old fool go ? 



An Abject Apology. 59 

Miss Elliot. Because he's very nice 
to me always. (Reeves looks disgusted^ 
but bt'ightens as he sees old Lane soicnd 
asleep) 

Mr. Reeves {pointing to Lane). How 
extraordinary! Does he always do that? 

Miss Elliot. Always. 

Mr. Reeves. The lean and slippered 
pantaloon ! Why don't they lock the 
doors on him? 

Miss Elliot. Oh ! he enjoys himself. 

Mr. Reeves {relapsijig into his former 
sober state). I suppose I can finish what 
I have to say. 

Miss Elliot. I don't know. I think 
we'd better go. 

Mr. Reeves {angrily). Well, the next 
time I talk seriously to a woman, I'll be 
whipped for it. Can't you see I'm in love ? 

Miss Elliot {looki7ig him over., and 
with a flourish). You in love ? Never ! 

Mr. Reeves. I don't look it? 

Miss Elliot. No. 

Mr. Reeves. I don't? Well, that 
shows how much perception you women 
have. Philipps informed me yesterday 



6o An Abject Apology, 

that any fool could see that I was in love. 
{After a pause) Every one recognizes 
you're in love, except the one you wish 
to perceive it. 

Miss Elliot. That's all very fine; 
but I've had — let me see — well, fifty men 
swear they were in love ; and I never saw 
two who were affected in the same way. 
There's one symptom, however, which all 
such idiots have in common. 

Mr. Reeves. What's that.? 

Miss Elliot. .They assume a certain 
right of direction, as it were, and get in- 
sulted if you won't give up all your time 
to thein, — if you won't do any thing and 
every thing they may demand. It's decid- 
edly annoying. 

Mr. Reeves. Why, of course it is. 
A man's a fool to behave that way. It 
just piques a woman, and tires her. {And^ 
after a pause) Will you go to the german 
with me to-morrow night.'* I can leave 
after it. 

Miss Elliot {an amused look passes 
over her face). I don't know. 

Mr. Reeves. Why not? Aren't you 
going? 



An Abject Apology, 6i 

Miss Elliot. I don't know. 

Mr. Reeves. Oh! -Miss Elliot! come 
and go. 

Miss Elliot. Well, perhaps I shall. 

Mr. Reeves. All right. I'll call for 
you at — 

Miss Elliot {carelessly). Oh, no, you 
needn't ! (Reeves looks annoyed. Miss 
Elliot perceives it) My going is really 
so uncertain. 

Mr. Reeves {impatiently). Now, there's 
no reason in the world why you should 
not go. 

Miss Elliot {interrupti^tg). How do 
you know, pray ? 

Mr. Reeves. Well, you know perfectly 
well you've got nothing to do this evening. 
Every one is going. 

Miss Elliot. Well, I'm not. 

Mr. Reeves {much annoyed). Now, 
what on earth is the use of taking such a 
stand as this ? You just spoil your own 
evening, and — 

Mi^s ¥.1.1.101: {laughing). Ah! you flat- 
ter yourself. 

Mr. Reeves. And mine, too. 



62 An Abject Apology. 

Miss Elliot. I've no doubt of that. 

Mr. Reeves {iinpaticiitly). Now, Miss 
Elliot, do be reasonable. I've got to go 
back to-morrow night, and I shall not see 
you for a long time. I have so looked 
forward to dancing to-morrow with you ! 
{Plaintively) I think you might. 

Miss Elliot. Now, see here, Mr. 
Reeves, you've been with me too much 
already, — people are beginning to talk. 
I don't care to have my name so con- 
stantly mentioned with yours. 

Mr. Reeves. Dear me, it's nothing 
new, I'm sure. It's been mentioned with 
a half a dozen this summer. 

Miss Elliot {quickly). Mr. Reeves, 
you forget yourself. What right have you 
to set yourself up as my keeper, I'd like 
to know. {She rises from her seat) 

Mr. Reeves. Where are you going? 
(Miss Elliot looks at him., but does 7zoi 
answer.) 

Mr. Reeves. Going home ? {No reply.) 
Are you going to the german to-morrow ? 
{No reply.) Will you go with me ? 

Miss Elliot {curtly and positively). 
No. 



Aft Abject Apology. 63 

Mr. Reeves. Will you wear some of 
my flowers ? 

Miss Elliot. No. 

Mr. Reeves {doggedly). Has any one 
else asked you to go ? {No answer; she 
starts to move away j Reeves follows 
her.) May I go with you ? 

Miss Elliot. No. 

Mr. Reeves {evidently angry., and 
walking in front of her). Now, see here, 
Miss Elliot, this is no way to treat a man. 
Why, confound it, I never heard any thing 
so unreasonable in my life ! What under 
the sun is the sense of behaving like this ! 
I simply asked you to dance with me, to 
walk with me, to wear my flowers, and you 
reply " I won't," without any reason. 
Pretty treatment this ; I won't stand it. 

Miss Elliot {laughing). Well, I 
wouldn't. 

Mr. Reeves {angrily). I won't. I sup- 
pose you'll go with that Vande water. 

Miss Elliot {slowly). I should not be 
surprised if I did. 

Mr. Reeves {with a sneer). He's a 
nice kind of a man for you to go with, — a 



64 An Abject Apology. 

vulgar, dissipated cad. The first thing 
you know, they'll have you in love with and 
engaged to him. 

Miss Elliot {drawing herself uP). Mr. 
Reeves, what do you mean by speaking to 
me in this way ? Pray let me remind you, 
that it is none of your business. 

Mr. Reeves {desperately). I merely 
spoke as a friend. I thought it would be 
well to tell you what Mrs. Grundy was 
saying about you in connection with that 
man. 

Miss Elliot. Mrs. Grundy can mind 
her own business. Mr. Vandewater's a 
friend of mine. 

Mr. Reeves. " Is he, indeed. I'm sorry 
to hear it. He's a poor specimen, and no 
associate for a lovely wornan like you. 
The idea of your being familiar with him. 

Miss Elliot {very angrily^ and with 
risifig inflection). Oh ! familiar with him ? 
I? You forget yourself, indeed. You'll 
please remember you are nothing to me 

— a mere stranger. I familiar with him ? 

— I in love with him ? Oh, it's too bad ! 
{She drops back into her seat. It is evi- 



An Abject Apology. 65 

dently by great self-co7itrol only that she 
keeps from crying. Reeves stands mute^ 
the picture of despair^ 

Miss Elliot {looking tip coldly and 
haughtily). Mr. Reeves, you'll please 
leave me. I little expected such vi^ords 
from you. 

Mr. Reeves. Oh ! Miss Elliot. I beg 
pardon — I did not mean — I would not 
for the world say any thing to pain you, 
but {coming closer to her) — but you don't 
know how I — 

Miss Elliot {avoiding hii7i). Mr. 
Reeves, you'll please not speak to me. 
If you won't leave me I — (Reeves moves 

off:) 

Mr. Reeves. Oh, Miss EUiot ! please 
don't be so hard on me — let me explain. 
{Sitting down beside her) I — I — Grace 
dear, I love — 

Miss Elliot {drawing herself back, and 
very coldly). Mr. Reeves, please don't 
speak to me again. 

Mr. Reeves {after a pause, and as if 
resigned to the inevitable). Good-by, Miss 
Elliot. {And then earnestly) Oh, can I 



66 An Abject Apology, 

do nothing to make you hear me? {She 
shakes her head) Well, good-by. {He 
rises.) I shall leave to-morrow morning. 
And {in deep bass) you'll not be troubled 
with me again. {Desperately) I hope 
yoii'll be happy. You've flirted with 
me brutally; that's what you've done — 
good-by, good-by. {He walks rapidly 
down the hall, and disappears in the 
dancing-room. Miss Elliot looks sadly 
after hi?n; makes an involuntary ges- 
ture as if to detain him, dives violently 
into her pocket, and wipes away two large 
tears. In a few minutes she is composed 
again; and seeing Mr. Lane still asleep, 
with a soft " Mr. Lane," she wakes that 
gentleman, who, delightfully oblivious of 
whafs been going on, starts up, and, — 

Mr. Lane. Yes — er — I was saying 
to Miss Smith — er. 

Miss Elliot {nervously). Yes, yes; 
but would you kindly take me to my 
chaperon. 

Mr. Lane. Certainly — er — certainly, 
with pleasure. {He offers his arm; she 
takes if, and they walk on into the con- 
servatory.) 



An Adject Apology. 67 

Scene. — T/ie cosily furnished room of a 
club. Two men in dress-coats are 
draw7i up befo'e a large fire, sm.oking; 
Yio^^wx glasses^etc.^071 a s?nall table near 
by. One is puffing away, regardless of 
the rate at which a delicious cigar is 
being used up. His co?npanion rises, 
and stands with his back to the fire. 

Mr. Jack Philipps. Julian, old fel- 
low, you are dreadfully gloomy this even- 
ing. What's the matter. Didn't you have 
it out with Grace Elliot ? 

Mr. Reeves {gloomily). I should think 
I did have it out with her. It's put out, 
and she's put out, and I'm put out ; and 
it's all off, and I'm glad of it. I hope I'll 
have a httle peace now. Thank Heaven ! 
I'm going back to-morrow. I'll never trou- 
ble her again. {After a pause) Jack, you 
know how much I've stood from her al- 
ready. (Philipps nods his head.) She's 
been flirting with me, and half a dozen 
others for that matter, for the last year. 
Now you know I stole off, and came down 
to settle the thing one way or the other ; 



68 An Abject Apology. 

and do you know she won't let me come 
to the point. 

Mr. Philipps. Why not .? How can 
she help it? 

Mr. Reeves {with much emphasis). 
How can she help it ? You know what 
women are. Well, I've borne It all with- 
out a murmur ; but this last is too much. 
I'll be hanged, if I ever speak to her 
again, unless she makes an abject apology. 

Mr. Philipps. I've no doubt you're 
right {knocking the ashes off his cigar). 
She's the worst flirt! But what's she 
done now ? 

Mr. Reeves. What's she done now? 
{Sitting up) ril tell you. {As he lights a 
fresh cigar) You know, Jack, she's been 
simply angelic these last two weeks since 
I came. I met her at the Dunlap's ball this 
evening. She was lovely until I told her 
I wanted to talk to her, and asked her to 
come out near the conservatory there. 
Then the racket began. She would not 
be serious, would not let me get ahead 
at all ; and finally having worried me into 
a state only short of madness, when I 



An Abject Apology. 69 

happened to ask her to go to the german 
with me to-morrow night, she said she 
didn't think she'd go. I told her she 
might as well, for every one would be 
there, and that I'd call for her. And 
then, do you know, she said I needn't, 
and that she wouldn't go with me. Now, 
what in the Devil do you suppose she did 
it for ? Well, I became angry. I told 
her I never dreamed of any thing so un- 
reasonable. I asked her if she'd wear 
some of my flowers. No : she wouldn't 
either wear my flowers, or go with me. 
She said I'd been with her continually, 
and she didn't care to have her name 
mentioned so constantly with mine. 
Finally, she said she was going with 
Vandewater. That was too much. I 
called him a cad ; declared him no associ- 
ate for her ; that people would have her 
engaged to him, the first thing she knew; 
and altogether lost my head, and made a 
fool of myself. She got very angry ; told 
me it was none of my business ; to go, 
and not to speak to her again, and so on 
and so on {throwing himself back in his 



70 An Abject Apology. 

chair). Oh, it's a mess! (Philipps 
smiles complacently^ 

Mr. Philipps. What a devil of a time 
you lovers have ! 

Mr. Reeves. Then, like a fool, I put 
myself in the wrong by begging her par- 
don, when it was all her fault. Of course, 
she wouldn't listen to me. But it's all 
over now. Blest if I ever speak to her 
again, unless she apologizes — apologizes 
most abjectly. What do you think about 
it? 

Mr. Philipps. I think you are right, 
perfectly. I never heard of such non- 
sense. Thank Heaven, I'm not in any 
of it! 

Mr. Reeves {soliloquising). She didn't 
give any reason ; simply said, I won't. 

Mr. Philipps. Now, Julian, old fel- 
low, do stop thinking about her. 

Mr. Reeves. I would if I could ; but 
it's no use. I fell in love with her the 
first time I ever saw her, and it's for good 
and all with me. But, suffer as I may, 
I'll never speak to her again, unless she 
apologizes most abjectly. 



An Abject Apology. 71 

Mr. Philipps {looking at his watch). 
Come, old chap, I must be off; it's half- 
past one. I'll see you at the german to- 
morrow. 

Mr. Reeves. No, you won't. 

Mr. Philipps. Well, I'll see you after- 
wards here, before you leave. 

Mr. Reeves. All right. (Philipps 
walks oict.) Good-night ! 

Mr. Philipps. Good-night! (^j Phil- 
ipps leaves the roo?n, he hears Reeves 
muinbling somethijtg about " the con- 
founded contrariness of these females, 
anyway.") 

♦ 

Scene. — A small room off a large dan- 
cing-hall. Miss Elliot is seated with 
her partner; as Philipps approaches^ 
he rises, and bows hiinself off. After 
the customary salutatio7ts, — 
Mr. Philipps. I thought you weren't 

coming to-night. 

Miss Elliot {quickly). Who told you 

so? 
Mr. Philipps. Reeves. 



72 An Abject Apology. 

Miss Elliot {with a slight sigh). Oh ! 
did he ? 

Mr. Philipps. He's going back to 
Boston to-night. 

Miss Elliot. Really? 

Mr. Philipps. Yes. I saw him after 
the ball last night. He was all broken 
up about something. Have you been 
treating him badly again } 

Miss Elliot {raising her eyebrows). I ? 
No ; I never treated any one badly in my 
life. 

Mr. Philipps. Whew! You women 
are — well, I was going to say — cheeky. 
{She looks surp7'ised. Philipps turns 
rounds and, facing her) See here, Miss 
Elliot, you and I, and Reeves and I, are 
old friends. I'm devoted to him, and you 
and I may as well talk plainly about this 
matter. You know as well as I do he's 
very much in love with you, and terribly 
in earnest; and you've treated the poor 
devil none too well. It's gone on long 
enough. Why don't you settle it, one 
way or the other ? 

Miss Elliot {naively). Because I 



An Abject Apology. 73 

don't want to settle it one way or the 
other. It's having it neither one way nor 
the other that's so dehghtful. 

Mr. Philipps. Well, that is frank; 
but why did you worry him so last night ? 

Miss Elliot. I worry him so ? What 
do you mean "i 

Mr. Philipps. Oh, you know perfect- 
ly well ! 

Miss Elliot. I did nothing for him 
to take on so about. He's so dreadfully 
unreasonable : Pve allowed him to be 
with me constantly during the last two 
weeks , and I had a perfect right {with 
emphasis) to say I would not go to this 
german with him ; and, after that, he got 
furious with me for laughing when he 
said, " I simply ask you to dance with, 
to walk with me, and to wear my flowers, 
and you say you won't, without any reason 
on earth." Now, isn't that delicious? 
Isn't that just like a man ? He gets in- 
sulted because I won't "talk with him, 
walk with him, dance with him, and wear 
his flowers." Well, I got angry, when he 
began to talk like that, and I told him to 



74 A7i Abject Apology. 

go. Then he spoke outrageously to me 
and of my friends. I'd rather not tell 
you the rest. But he can go. I am sure 
I don't care. Why doesn't he marry Miss 
Hearst, anyway? 

Mr. Philipps. You know very well 
why he don't. 

Miss Elliot {decisively). Well, that's 
all. He may go back to Boston. 

Mr. Philipps {seriously). He's very 
angry, — says you've treated him out- 
rageously ; and that he'll never speak to 
you again unless you make an abject 
apology. 

Miss Elliot {laughing — rather bit- 
terly, perhaps). Abject apology, indeed. 
I have nothing to apologize for. I tell 
you this is the end of it. I certainly shall 
not speak to him unless he begs my ^zx- 
don ?nost humbly. {At this inoment her 
partner comes up and takes her off. 
Philipps rises, walks slowly round the 
room, and exit.) 



An Abject Apology. 75 

Scene. — Room in cluh-house as before; 
enter Philipps. Reeves is seated be- 
fore the fire, deep in thouglitj he looks 
up as his friefid comes in. 

Mr. Reeves {gloomily). Well. 

Mr. Philipps. Well, I saw her {lie sits 
down). 

Mr. Reeves {with a grunt). Did you ? 

Mr. Philipps. I did, — the fair, the 
inexpressive she, — and she declares she'll 
never have any thing more to do with you 
until you beg her pardon most humbly. 

Mr. Reeves. Did she? I hke that. 
{Getting up and facing Philipps) Did she 
seem to care ? 

Mr. Philipps. To tell the truth, I 
couldn't make out ; I think she does. I 
told her she'd better stop this kind of 
thing, as I didn't believe you'd stand it 
any longer. 

Mr. Reeves. What did she say to 
that .? 

Mr. Philipps. Nothing; but I think 
she remembered it. 

Mr. Reeves {positively'). I suppose 



76 Ajt Abject Apology. 

she thought I'd go to see her to-day, but 
I didn't. I don't intend to be trifled with 
any longer. {Looking at his watch) By 
Jove ! I'll miss that train. Well, I'll say 
good-by, Jack. I'm awfully obliged for all 
your kindness. Write me, if any thing 
turns up. 

Mr. Philipps. I will. Good-by. 

Mr. Reeves. Good-by. {They shake 
hands cordially^ and exit Reeves.) 



Scene. — The parlor of Miss Elliot's 
house, a couple of months later. It is a 
gloomy afternooii in February. Reeves 
enters^ drops with a deep sigh into a 
large chair, and takes out a letter which 
he reads. 

"My Dear Julian, — Our fair friend seemed 
to get along finely for some weeks after you left. 
Later, however, she showed signs of drooping, 
seemed always very glad to meet your humble ser- 
vant, asked for you and your health, and went so 
far, a few days ago, as to say that she would like 
to see you. I do now honestly think that she re- 
pents. Do come down; and, if you keep your 



An Abject Apology. 77 

head about you (though you lose your heart), you 
may carry off this fair penitent in triumph. All 
luck to you, old fellow ! I leave town to-morrow, 
so I shall not see you. 

" Sincerely your friend, 

"JACK PHILIPPS." 

As he finishes he gets up, and walks to 
the mantel^ on which there are several 
pictures of his sweetheart. He picks one 
up, and is looking intently at it, when^ 
hearing the rustle of a dress, he turns, 
and finds himself face to face with Miss 
Grace Elliot. That you7tg lady looks 
somewhat pale, and by no means so bloojjt- 
ing as a couple of fnonths back. Reeves 
takes all this in at a glance. The girl 
comes forward, and extends her hand 
frankly to him. He takes it, looks at her 
for an instant, and they sit down 7iear 
the window, 

Mr. Reeves. I've come to beg your 
pardon most humbly, Miss Elliot. 

Miss Elliot. Yes ? 

Mr. Reeves. I know it was very un- 
gentlemanly — very rude ; but you can't 



78 An Abject Apology. 

think I would intentionally hurt your feel- 
ings, do you ? 

Miss Elliot. No. 

Mr. Reeves. You don't know how 
dreadfully I've felt, how much I've suf- 
fered, all these weeks, because of this 
foolish misunderstanding. 

Miss Elliot {dolefully). So have I. 

Mr. Reeves. But I've come to say 
{slie looks up calmly in his face), to say 
that I love you ; that I've loved you all 
along; that you've taken entire possession 
of me. It was all very well to fight against 
it ; but I cannot live in peace or accom- 
plish any thing without you. 

Miss Elliot. Yes.? 

Mr. Reeves {coming closer to her, and 
almost in a whisper). I've come to tell 
you so ; to ask if you love me. Do you 
love me enough to become my wife 1 I 
know how much I'm asking of you, my 
darling girl ! I've little to offer you in a 
worldly way, — nothing but the true love 
of a man who would do and dare any 
thing for you. {After a pause) Don't you 
love me ? 



A?i Abject Apology. 79 

Miss Elliot. Yes {as she places her 
hand in his). 

Mr. Reeves. Grace, dearest {he 
catches her hand in both his own, and 
reverently and fondly kisses it. As he 
looks up, his eyes 7?zeet hers. A calm, 
peaceful smile answers his appealing 
look. Neither speaks for so?ne 7nin utes) — 
Grace, dear, will you kindly tell me why 
you behaved so to me that evening two 
months ago ? 

Miss Elliot {demurely). Because I 
knew what you were going to say, and I 
wasn't ready to %2iy yes then, and {catching 
his hand in hers) yet I didn't want to say 
no. {Laughing) But I never made An Ab- 
ject Apology. 



THE END. 



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I vol., i2mo, half calf, $4.00 ; tree calf, $5.00 ; cloth, 
$1.50. 
ANNOUCHKA. A Tale. By Ivan Turgenef. i vol., 
i6mo, cloth, $1.50. 

POEMS IN PROSE. By Ivan Turgenef. With por- 
trait. I vol., i2mo, cloth, gilt top, uncut edges, 
$1.25. 

EVERY MAN HIS OWN POET; or, The Inspired 
Singer's Recipe Book. By W. H. Mallock, 
author of " New Republic," etc. Eleventh edition. 
i6mo, 25 cents. 

THE ART OF FICTION. By Walter Besant and 
Henry James. Second edition, i vol., i6mo, 
cloth, 50 cents. 

THE STORY OF IDA. By Francesca. Edited, with 
Preface, by John Ruskin. With frontispiece by 
author. i6mo, limp cloth, red edges, 75 cents. 

;8@" Ajty of the above works sent postpaid to any 
part of the United States or Canada on receipt of 
the price. 

CUPPLES, UPHAM & CO., Publishers. Boston. 



TWO COMEDIES: 
z/l'j^ III H^int); 

z/lfl^C <i/lBJECT r/IPOLOGY, 

BY 

F, DONALDSON, JR. 




BOSTON t 

CUPPLES, UPHAM & COMPANY. 

Cf)c ©ItJ Cornet iSoofestorc. 

1887. 



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